John Adams - By Blood We Live

Sure, Davis thought, right after he’s had you fitted for your straightjacket. The ironic thing was, how often had he argued the benefits of the Army’s psychiatric care with Lugo? It had been their running gag. Lugo would return from reading his e-mail with news of some guy stateside who’d lost it, shot his wife, himself, which would prompt Davis to say that it was a shame the guy hadn’t gotten help before it came to that. Help, Lugo would say, from who? The Army? Man, you must be joking. The Army don’t want nothing to do with no grunt can’t keep his shit together. No, no, Davis would say, sure, they still had a ways to go, but the Army was changing. The kinds of combat-induced pathologies it used to pretend didn’t exist were much more likely to be treated early and effectively. (If Lee and Han were present, and/or Remsnyder, they’d ooh and aah over Davis ‘s vocabulary.) Oh yeah, Lugo would reply, if they don’t discharge your ass right outta here, they’ll stick you at some bullshit post where you won’t hurt anyone. No, no, Davis would say, that was a rumor. Oh yeah, Lugo would say, like the rumor about the guys who went to the doctor for help with their PTSD and were told they were suffering from a fucking pre-existing condition, so it wasn’t the Army’s problem? No, no, Davis would say, that was a few bad guys. Oh yeah, Lugo would say.

Before he and the lieutenant-who had been abducted by a platoon of siblings, their spouses, and their kids for ten days in Florida-discussed the matter, Davis passed his nightly struggles to stay awake wondering if the psychiatric ward was the worst place he might wind up. His only images of such places came from films like

One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest, Awakenings, and K-PAX, but based on those examples, he could expect to spend his days robed and slippered, possibly medicated, free to read what he wanted except during individual and group therapy sessions. If it wasn’t quite the career as a psychologist he’d envisioned, he’d at least be in some kind of proximity to the mental health field. Sure, it would be a scam, but didn’t the taxpayers of the U.S. of A. owe him recompense for shipping him to a place where the Shadow could just drop in and shred his life? The windows would be barred or meshed, the doors reinforced-you could almost fool yourself such a location would be safe.

However, with his second episode, it became clear that safe was one of those words that had been bayoneted, its meaning spilled on the floor. Davis had been approved to resume therapy with Lucy, who had been honestly happy to see him again. It was late in the day; what with the complete breakdown in his sleeping patterns, he wasn’t in optimal condition for another go-around on the Rack, but after so much time stuck in his head, terrified at what was in there with him, the prospect of a vigorous workout was something he was actually looking forward to. As before, gentle stretching preceded the main event, which Lucy told Davis he didn’t have to do but for which he had cavalierly assured her he was, if not completely able, at least ready and willing. With the second push of his feet against the pedals, pain ignited up his back, and his lack of sleep did not aid in his tolerating it. Each subsequent retraction and extension of his legs ratcheted the hurt up one more degree, until he was lying on a bed of fire.

This time

2:15am

“my vision didn’t blur-it cracked, as if my knees levering up and down were an image on a TV screen and something smacked the glass. Everything spiderwebbed and fell away. What replaced it was movement-I was moving up, my arms beating down; there was this feeling that they were bigger, much bigger, that when I swept them down, they were gathering the air and piling it beneath them. I looked below me, and there were bodies-parts of bodies, organs-all over the place. There was less blood than there should have been. Seeing them scattered across the ground-it was like having a bird’s-eye view of some kind of bizarre design. Most of them were men, twenties and thirties; although there were two women and a couple, three kids. Almost everybody was wearing jeans and workboots, sweatshirts, baseball caps, except for a pair of guys dressed in khaki and I’m pretty sure cowboy hats.”

“What the fuck?” Lee said.

“Cowboys,” Han said.

“Texas Border Patrol,” the lieutenant said.

“So those other people were like, illegal immigrants?” Lee said.

The lieutenant nodded.

Davis said, "I’ve never been to Texas, but the spot looked like what you see on TV. Sandy, full of rocks, some scrub brush and short trees. There was a muddy stream-you might call it a river, I guess, if that was what you were used to-in the near distance, and a group of hills further off. The sun was perched on top of the hills, setting, and that red ball made me beat my arms again and again, shrinking the scene below, raising me higher into the sky. There was-I felt full-more than full, gorged, but thirsty, still thirsty, that same, overpowering dryness I’d experienced the previous…time. The thirst was so strong, so compelling, I was a little surprised when I kept climbing. My flight was connected to the sun balanced on that hill, a kind of-not panic, exactly: it was more like urgency. I was moving, now. The air was thinning; my arms stretched even larger to scoop enough of it to keep me moving. The temperature had dropped-was dropping, plunging down. Something happened-my mouth was already closed, but it was as if it sealed somehow. Same thing with my nostrils; I mean, they closed themselves off. My eyes misted, then cleared. I pumped my arms harder than I had before. This time, I didn’t lose speed; I kept moving forward.

“Ahead, I saw the thing I’d seen in the courtyard-a huge shape, big as a house. Pointed at the ends, fat in the middle. Dark-maybe dark purple, maybe not-and shiny. The moment it came into view, this surge of…I don’t know what to call it. Honestly, I want to say it was a cross between the way you feel when you put your bag down on your old bed and, ‘Mommy,’ that little kid feeling, except that neither of those is completely right. My arms were condensing, growing substantial. I was heading towards the middle. As I drew closer, its surface rippled, like water moving out from where a stone strikes it. At the center of the ripple, a kind of pucker opened into the thing. That was my destination.”

“And?” Lee said.

“Lucy emptied her Gatorade on me and brought me out of it.”

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” Lee said.

“Afraid not,” Davis said.

“How long was this one?” the lieutenant asked.

“Almost five minutes.”

“It took her that long to toss her Gatorade on you?” Lee said.

“There was some kind of commotion at the same time, a couple of guys got into a fight. She tried to find help; when she couldn’t, she doused me.”

Lee shook his head.

“And you have since confirmed the existence of this object,” the lieutenant said.

“Yes, sir,” Davis said. "It took some doing. The thing’s damned near impossible to see, and while no one would come out and say so to me, I’m pretty sure it doesn’t show up on radar, either. The couple of pictures we got were more dumb luck than anything.”

“’We’?” Lee said.

“I-”

The lieutenant said, "I put Mr. Davis in touch with a friend of mine in Intelligence.”

“Oh,” Lee said. "Wait-shit: you mean the CIA’s involved?”

“Relax,” Davis said.

“Because I swear to God,” Lee said, "those stupid motherfuckers would fuck up getting toast out of the toaster and blame us for their burned fingers.”

“It’s under control,” the lieutenant said. "This is our party. No one else has been invited.”